BOOK NOTE: City of Small Blessings - Simon Tay

I find it fascinating that many places we now call home or office in Singapore used to be the sea just a few decades ago. Reclamation is the term for the process where geo-engineering is used to create new land where the sea once lapped at the shore. Entire districts have arisen this way, and more will follow given Singapore’s ambitious plans. And with it, what was once a beach road retreats inland.

What has always struck me is the word itself. Reclamation. It carries a sense of assertion, as though we are simply taking back what was ours from the sea. But from another perspective, it may be the reverse: perhaps it is the sea that has been forced to surrender what has always been its own, in the name of progress. I am not complaining, just fascinated by the semantics.

Simon Tay’s City of Small Blessings helped me appreciate this “other side” perspective. Told through the lives of two generations, a father and a son, it spans decades. From the father’s childhood to the son’s adulthood. The novel reflects on change, its pace, and how memory, though personal and mosaic-like, is often painted over by the broad brush of history, leaving a grander but less nuanced canvas.

Without giving away too much, the book is a story of loss and identity, and how physical places serve as artifacts in that journey. The central conflict is the loss of an estate, taken by the powers that be to be redeveloped for foreign interests. For most of us, it makes sense. There is progress, efficiency, development. But for those living there, especially the aging protagonist, it is the taking away of home.

The novel is rich and layered. Through flashbacks, it recalls Singapore’s wartime hardships, the forging of national resilience, and the protagonist’s own rise as a respected educationist which mirrors the nation’s growth from a fishing village to a global cosmopolis. Yet by the 2000s, progress has become institutionalized, a steady hum of growth that often masks in data and statistics, the living memories of those it displaces. The retired protagonist, ousted from his home, becomes a symbol of this tension.

The narrative alternates between father and son, highlighting generational shifts. The son represents a global, hybrid identity. One that is cosmopolitan, yet detached from the pioneer spirit. His loyalties are not to what the pioneers built, but more to the individuals themselves. Their sacrifices, and their worldview, his father’s in particular. What remains for his generation is not so much the physical place, but the personalities and the stories that shaped them.

Amidst the reclamation of the estate, there is the same justification as with land reclamation: progress, executed efficiently and rationally. Yet the novel made me feel that the protagonist is like the sea itself. Pushed back, encroached upon, but no less Singaporean than the land that rises in its place.

One passage captures this beautifully, when the protagonist protests the redevelopment:

The unplanned is a hedge, an insurance policy in times of revolutionary change. The unplanned also has its value…
The places we think peripheral influence and shape evolution in the mainstream.
The unplanned provides surprise, texture and serendipity.
This can be physical. In a modern city, a conserved building, or in the heart of an old city, a gleaming tower. It can be mental and social. In a busy business day in a consumer-centered, rational society, an hour for coffee with a person with an interesting story—or even the prospect of falling in love, like the famous photograph by Robert Doisneau. Amidst the milling, bustling crowd, a couple kisses. The planned schedules are disrupted, put on hold, for something—romance—that no one can really plan for, even if we can hope for it. We can plan our lives, but what happens, will happen. And if we are blessed, what happens will be beyond our grandest plans.

City of Small Blessings itself feels like such an “unplanned” gift. A hidden garden tucked between skyscrapers, a quiet refuge of memory and meaning in the tide of progress. And as the review by the Quarterly Literary Review said, ‘an important marker in the history of the Singapore novel’.

 

BOOK NOTE - The Blade Itself by Joe Abercrombie

As a fan of fantasy books, I have grown accustomed to the slower pace, expansive timelines, and numerous characters that define the great works in this genre. Think G.R.R Martin’s multi-volume A Song of Ice and Fire series, which I have read in full and in the right order. Think of the 20+ volume Sword of Truth series by Terry Goodkind, of which I have managed only three—starting somewhere in the middle. Or the mind-numbingly expansive Malazan Book of the Fallen series by Steven Erikson, which I am reading in chronological order but have only reached book four of the 25+ instalments.

A common thread in all these is the sheer expanse of the universe—the people, lands, and magical systems. They can be enchanting, transporting you to different worlds, complete with maps and side stories to disappear into. But they can also be overwhelming, just to keep pace with the scale and complexity. The Malazan series in particular is so vast and intricate that it can be difficult to get through—and I mean that in a good way. Given my interest in both fiction and non-fiction, committing to such sprawling series can limit the variety of my reading life.

Enter the likes of Patrick Rothfuss’s Kingkiller Chronicle and Joe Abercrombie’s First Law trilogy—both great fantasy series, but relatively faster-paced and, in subtle ways, less demanding on one’s reading cadence.

Abercrombie’s The Blade Itself is a fine example of this. I had been meaning to get to it for at least two years since it was recommended by someone with a good eye for epic fantasy, and I am glad I finally did.

The worldbuilding is both brisk and evocative. The familiar fantasy tropes are here—the vain and prickly hero, the noble brute, the wise wizard, the tragic mentor, the cheeky dame in distress and the evil forces from beyond the borders and within. There is magic that is taboo, historical figures assembling a fellowship, and wars and beasts at the periphery. But what I especially enjoyed was that the politics and motivations felt very contemporary. Perhaps it is Abercrombie’s language, but unlike Malazan, which feels truly ancient, the characters in The Blade Itself often seem modern. The sense of the ancient is there, but the events feel distinctly of our time.

It is a fine balance to strike. Lean too modern and it starts to feel like sci-fi with magic—a tone better suited to young adult vampire dramas on TV.

One example, without spoilers: the book features merchant guilds that are ruthless capitalist empires, sanctioned by the King. Over time, they have grown in wealth and influence, overtaking the old-money aristocrats. This sets the stage for a different kind of “eat-the-rich” revolution—not from the poor masses, but from the royal and erstwhile nobility. Many fantasy novels I have read have powerful merchants, usually individuals, but I cannot recall another that plays with this almost post-capitalist dynamic. For that alone, the book deserves credit.

A great read, highly recommended.

Telling stories from the future

Stories from the future are always interesting.

Yes, you read that right. Stories from the future can be told today, but they are not always what you think they are. They might fall under science fiction or fantasy, but beyond that, they offer us a way to imagine what lies ahead, engaging both our creative and cognitive faculties. They serve an important role in helping us visualize plausible worlds.

I loved reading “The Story of You: What might Singapore look like for those born today?” in today’s (8 Aug 2025) edition of The Straits Times. As the summary puts it, the piece envisions life for a child born in 2025, projecting all the way to 2105 and beyond.

Drawing on current trends and data, as well as interviews with 19 experts, The Straits Times envisions one speculative and possible future for the first members of Generation Beta who are born in 2025, as part of its Born Tomorrow series.

                                                   The Story of You, The Straits Times, 8th August 2025.

Read Here

This kind of speculative futures work, with storytelling at its core, is not prophecy, nor is it pure science fiction. It’s a fascinating discipline at the intersection of science, art, and management that helps us imagine what could be. And rather than predict the future, it helps us prepare for it. We should take this seriously. It’s not just a story emerging from an inventive mind, but from a structured method. It is based on trends, uncertainties, and expert insights that explores the edges of science and culture.

Of course, any attempt to think about the future is always constrained by the past. As futurist Arthur C. Clarke once said, “The most daring prophecies seem laughably conservative.” Prophecy tends to be conservative. I did feel this article didn’t push the boundaries of imagination enough. It’s rather cautious, even. But it’s still heartening to see this kind of scenario thinking becoming more mainstream, rather than being confined to academic circles.

Interestingly, I had written a similar imagined future scenario back in 2016: "October 10th, 2030". It was my own small experiment in speculative storytelling - combining data, trends, and imagination.

And now, with the support of AI, this process of informed ‘hallucination’ and envisioning possible futures can become far more accessible.

Maybe in this field, some of AI’s hallucination problems could actually be a feature, and not a bug.

Banner Image Credit © Edisaacs | Stock Free Images

Pulp fiction - fast plots, timeless lessons

Books come in various styles. One of my favourites is pulp fiction. What do I mean by pulp fiction? It is the genre of books that usually consists of murder mysteries, crime novellas, espionage stories, lawyers solving crimes, and some adventure novels. The common thread across all of these is that they are fast paced, with mostly morally ambiguous characters—either trying to commit a crime, hide a crime, solve a crime, or being a victim of one.

Some of the great authors of all time were pulp fiction writers. Legendary writers like Ray Bradbury and Philip K. Dick started off writing pulp stories in magazines before they wrote their famous works. But there is an entire league of authors who are great pulp fiction writers, full stop. The best among them, according to me, is James Hadley Chase. Nothing beats a good Chase potboiler when you have a few hours and do not want anything that taxes the mind.

Classic pulp noir: the seductive femme fatale and the hard-boiled detective, caught in a moment of danger, desire, and double-cross.

The hallmark of a great James Hadley Chase book is that the mystery is no mystery at all. As the reader, you usually begin the story already knowing who the criminal is and who the slightly better-off person chasing the criminal might be. The suspense lies in the story and in how the game of cat and mouse plays out. Chase’s characters are never entirely good or bad. They live real lives and are full of contradictions. Sometimes they are hard-boiled criminals with a cruel edge who kill, torture, and commit senseless crimes. But the great author places them in situations and storylines that have you rooting for these terrible characters—and wondering why. And long before George R. R. Martin became famous for killing off his main protagonists (I still cannot believe when Ned Stark died. Genius), James Hadley Chase was routinely offing some of the best characters—the ones you were kind of rooting for. But clearly, the little bit of goodness they had in them is what most likely got them killed.

As an avid reader, I often find myself reading many books at once. I usually try to finish every book I start, but sometimes, between great literature, non-fiction, and other average or hard-to-read titles, the reading mind needs some dessert. Enter a pulp novel. It is usually about 200 pages long, fast paced, and filled with action. I can usually finish a pulp book in less than three days, sometimes overnight. But it does the trick—it gets me motivated to return to my more substantial reading material. Pulp fiction is the original Instagram Reels or YouTube Shorts of the analog world. And like their modern equivalents, they can be addictive too—but without any of the side effects that come with doomscrolling.

I have been using books as a way to stay away from consuming media incessantly, and to resist what I call "dopamitis"—a constant need for stimulation. Pulp books help a lot to inject some good-natured fun and adventure.

In the last six months alone, I have read many pulp fiction books. The most recent ones are The Vulture is a Patient Bird by James Hadley Chase and The Best Laid Plans by Sidney Sheldon. These books are among the best by their respective authors and feature all the well-loved pulp tropes—murders, gunfights, damsels in distress, sneaky villains, handsome men, and of course, lots of gratuitous sexy stuff.

Other recent reads include A Case of the Negligent Nymph, a Perry Mason mystery by Erle Stanley Gardner, and Well Now, My Pretty by James Hadley Chase. As a teenager, and well into my twenties and thirties, I must have read at least 50 to 100 great pulp novellas, including series like Nick Carter: Killmaster.

Pulp books are excellent material to learn the art of storytelling from. They are mass market and commercial, and often demonstrate best practices in how to capture a reader’s attention. The genre is also very good at subverting traditional story structures like the Hero’s Journey, often twisting them into darker or more ironic forms.

A familiar pulp setup—tension, beauty, and danger—but with just enough ambiguity to leave you questioning who holds the upper hand.

What pulp fiction does well is to understand its audience. Historically, pulp writers published in magazines, and stories were often serialised. This created a feedback loop. Authors learned from how readers responded to each instalment, and that shaped the next one. Pulp fiction was a consumer product. Unlike literary writers, who had to rely on pure content and critical reception, pulp writers were always responsive to their readers. In that sense, pulp fiction offers great lessons for marketing and advertising, which also work best when grounded in consumer insight.

That said, good pulp fiction did not necessarily cater to the lowest common denominator. While there was plenty of that, the truly standout works knew how to hook readers, keep the pace, and land the ending in a way that kept them coming back. The tools they used were consistency and clear positioning. Perry Mason was about the wily defence lawyer outsmarting the justice system to prove his client’s innocence against overwhelming odds. He usually did this by revealing the actual killer in dramatic courtroom scenes. His clients were often attractive but morally ambiguous young women. Nick Carter was Killmaster, a globe-trotting spy in exotic locales with damsels in distress and gadgets galore. James Hadley Chase told stories of criminals clashing with other, slightly less evil criminals. The bounty was always something attained at great personal cost.

By codifying these tropes, the great pulp fiction writers ensured they kept their audiences coming back for more.

The drama of pulp lies not just in violence but in mystery, tension, and the unknown—books and bullets, both loaded

And finally, one piece of writing or marketing wisdom that can be drawn from good pulp fiction is how the writing leaves much to the reader’s imagination. This, to me, is the master stroke. Great writers know that each reader’s mind is fertile ground for imagination, and they use that to their advantage. The prose is tight and sharp, allowing the reader to imagine what something might feel or look like. By not being overly descriptive and trusting the reader to fill in the gaps, great pulp stories plant seeds in the reader’s mind and immerse them deeply in the experience. That feeling is probably only ever replicated in good cinema.

Note: Illustrations in this post, excepting the book covers, were generated by ChatGPT using AI image tools to evoke the visual spirit of classic pulp fiction.

BOOK NOTE - Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow by Gabrielle Zevin

One of the advantages of a National Library subscription is that I get to read many books for free. But a persistent disadvantage is that it seems to drive me to read fast—sometimes way too fast—just to stay within the loan period. Especially since you don’t always get to extend the loan on a book, and you can end up stuck on the waitlist for an indefinite amount of time. This isn’t great for the reading experience. It doesn’t let you reflect or even enjoy the book fully.

I read Gabrielle Zevin’s Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow in under seven days because my ‘Skip the Line’ loan only allowed me to keep the book for that long. The eBook, at about 400 pages, isn’t meant to be a fast read. But the story was compelling and engaging enough that I ended up finishing it. It also helped that I had two flights during that period—nothing like the internet blackout on planes to force some quality reading time. Frankly, that’s one of the best things about flights, and I hate that some now offer Wi-Fi.

NOTE: Spoilers ahead.

The book is about gamers and game developers, which connected well with me. It is also a book about friendship and love. But honestly, the main characters are hard to like. They’re depressed, sometimes psychotic, and go through or inflict a fair bit of mental torture.

Sam, one of the protagonists, has endured several emotional traumas: his parents aren’t together, he witnesses a freak suicide at a young age, and he’s in a horrific car accident that kills his mother and injures his leg badly. Despite all this, he remains broadly positive—rightfully a little reserved.

Sadie, on the other hand, has had less childhood trauma. She comes from wealthy parents, has a sister who recovers from cancer, and turns out to be brilliant—but also more bitter. The only truly likeable character is Marx, a key player in their story. He’s almost tragically good-natured. But I liked that. The idea that someone can be consistently cheerful—and that this could be a sign of intelligence—really stayed with me.

I felt Sadie, the other main protagonist, goes through some self-inflicted problems in life by getting into a torrid relationship with her married gaming professor, Dov. She pays the price by being jilted and ‘used,’ and unfortunately takes it out on her best friend Sam and their co-workers.

Overall, the characters didn’t quite connect with me. Especially with the mixed Japanese-Korean heritage of two of the leads, the whole thing started to feel very Murakami-like. The emotional turmoil, the torrid love affairs, the possessive pining—it was all very Murakami, just without the Murakami authorship.

What made the book work for me was the gaming industry storytelling, and the way computer games and their development shaped an entire generational cohort. I really enjoyed that part.